A Memory In White
by A Denial
Summary: A very ROMY fic. Chapter Four: Remy's gone, and he's left Rogue with a lot of things to think about, and with some painful decisions to be made.
1. A Delay In Slow Motion

**Fic Title: **A Memory in White  
**Author:**A Denial  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Pairing:** Remy, Rogue  
**Not affiliated with: **Marvel, Warner Bros

**And ah yeah, thedisclaimer: **

**I don't own Marvel, or the X-Men, or what is perhaps the most written about couple on the internet, so don't bother suing me. If you instead decide to sue Stan Lee (for whatever reason, maybe the way Remy was almost totally cut off from XME), and get the syndication for Rogue and Remy from him, please share them with us, okay?**

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**This is intended to be a short fic about Remy and Rogue. I wrote the first chapter right after reading D.H. Lawrence, so the fic's bound to be a bit, er, off the beaten path.**

**Other than that, I just want to write here that the first chapter's meant to be read in a slow way; rushing through it will probably not get as good an effect, it'll probably end up sounding lame then.**

**Okay?**

**Then read on, enjoy, and please review.**

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It's funny how life can be compared to the most trivial ofthings, she thought, like a cup of latte.

Well, it has the fine bitter powder that gives flavor; it has little rocky peaks of sweetness, of happiness, that get mixed in, stirred into the warm murky brown depths that lie beneath the cream, the white pureness that covers the dark beneath.

Actually, to be fair, she thought, stirring her own cup, life was nothing like a cup of latte. What was staring her in the face was a swirling white-brown cup of frothy latte, which was nothing like life, which was nothing like coffee, which was. . .

She shook her head, trying to dislodge the cobwebs there, trying to shake off the grey haze of sleep that had threatened more than once, to gently drop her nodding head into her cup.

Of course, analogies were not the best way of waking up, she mused, as she pushed away the cup and stumbled to her room, eyes periodically opening and closing, and her yawns echoing in the quiet chilly stillness of the passageway. If he didn't come soon, she would go to sleep, uncaring, oblivious to his calls. If he came after that, well, there would be hell for him to pay, wouldn't there?

In her room, everything faded away to a pale mockery of reality except her bed, resplendent and siren-like, seeming to invite her, mockingly, though knowing she was supposed to stay awake, yet promising her comfort, warm comfort in the cold weather, and sanctuary against the belief that he might not come.

Moving darkly, slowly, in the gloom, she ignored the bed, sleepy eyes under tousled hair squinting softly in the near dark. In the pale shadows of her room, she could make out her dresser, like a rock in the middle of a dream, and she sailed towards it slowly, dream like and deliberate in her motion.

On the dresser, the clock showed, in phosphorous coated green authority, that it was five in the morning, the time kept by him for the meeting. She sank upon the chair kept in front of the dresser, her mind teeming with curses that scattered like ants in her mind, and, like ants, came crawling to the tip of her tongue, forcing her to speak them to be rid of them. Another few minutes, and she would drift off to sleep, clandestine meetings be damned. In the meanwhile, however, there was nothing for her to do, nothing that would lessen the cloying, choking grip of sleep that had practically turned her into a sleepwalker, nothing that would stop her from. . .

Her eyes lighted on her make-up kit, left unprotected on her dresser, lying there small and unassuming, innocent, surely worth more than a distraction from sleep.

But there was nothing else in that pale dark room, touched by glimmerings from the soft, shy sun, that she could use, nothing really, that could be used by her without her taking the effort to rise from her chair, nothing she could think of that would attract her strongly enough to prevent her from embracing the soft draining touch of her bed, that now glowed softly, torch-like, in the pale touches of the sun, calling her, knowing that she was moth-like in that moment, wishing to burn her into moth smoke.

She shivered then, cold suddenly, away from the warm grabbing softness of her bed, and shaking off her languor, began to apply her make-up, the same way she had done so often that her hands moved of their own accord, softly, sensitively brushing her skin, soft and sensitive in the cold pale dawn.

White on her pale skin, perhaps to hide her face and mask her insecurities, perhaps to contrast between her good side and her black, darker side, which she signified by using black lipstick, looking carefully, piercingly at her heart shaped face in the round mirror.

Round like a target, she thought, applying the purple eye shadow. Purple for royalty, she supposed, maybe a deep seated need to prove to people that she was someone, something special. . . or maybe the half witted ramblings of a girl who definitely needed to catch up on her sleep. It was well past the time for the meeting. He was not coming.

She had risen up from her chair, was about to assent to the dark silent call of her bed, when the soft muted knockings of a few expertly thrown pebbles on her window broke the spell she was under, and deftly wove another one around her.

Softly, disbelievingly, she walked to the window, opened it slowly, dream-like, and peered out below. In the light mist of dawn, wind ruffled hair blowing gently to the side he stood, like a strange unexpected specter, wraithlike in the rapidly dissolving gloom, trench coat slowly wafting with the cool breeze. His cheeks were ruddy from the cold, and his eyes a muted red, crinkled from his smile. The whole scene seemed frozen for her, looking out from her second story window, and when he spoke, she could see the mist rise slowly from his breath, disappearing lazily away.

"Cherie,"

was all that he said, and she knew in a moment of sharp, sudden insight, that she was his. Forever.

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**Love it? Hate it? Think it tastes like chicken?**

**Review, and if you don't like the tone, or the over-description I admit I used on purpose, please tell me. Do tell do tell do tell . . . Okay?**


	2. Frantic

**Well, I told you read to read the previous chapter slowly, now I want you to read this one - fast.**

**Why?**

**Because Remy's late, of course.**

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Breathless.

Pounding pace through the bushes.

Run, little white rabbit; run. You're late.

Thoughts precipitated through his mind, blurry, bewildering. As breakneck as his run to her house.

Fool!

Idiot!

Moron!

He cursed himself, punctuating each thought with a leap.

The dangers of a malfunctioning alarm clock revealed, he thought as his breath staccatoed in his throat. His lungs were shredded with spikes of pain.

The sun about to rise as if in derision of his frantic race, round and obese and disdainful, a lightening of sky illuminating his sweat stained face and now-jerky run. He had to beat the sun, the sun determined the time of rendezvous, he had to beat it, he had to. . .

Trip.

A little rise of rock, interfering, clutching at his foot. Making him go stumbling, crashing.

Headlong rush into the oblivion of a tree.

Moments spent stunned, upside down, world in a tumble, hazed.

A little nudge to collapse the sticking up legs on to the ground, moments spent in reddening agony.

The long painful haul back up to a semblance of standing, the slow crabbing run onwards.

Step.

Step, and totter, dizzying and hurt.

The world shimmers and dims as he collapses to his knees. Knuckles white, hand clutching chest. Ragged breaths from hoarse dry mouth. Choking. Dampened hair sticking to sweating forehead, jeans ripped at knee, welling blood.

Pain.

But pain is not a factor here. It doesn't count. What counts is that he set the meeting, he set the time, he must not, cannot be late.

Collapse and die; but don't break her heart, don't lose her trust.

Never.

Not again.

On his knees in the first rays of the sun, not even halfway to the house, her room. On his knees, defeated.

The dangers of late night drink revealed, revealed in soft clear sunlight upon his worried face.

Up on his feet again. The knee is ignored.

Running again, each step spiking pain in his leg, sharp, hurting. Thoughts still a blur, still a shattering of mosaics in his mind. But in all the blur, she stands out, green eyes looking at him in his memory, clear, crystal.

Maybe he's overcautious, he thinks, running still harder, maybe she will forgive, understand, be appeased.

He knows he has a greater chance of flying her off to the moon.

The sun, unrelenting, rises still up, and he curses in hapless impotence. Inexorably it rises as he runs past the first few cars on the quiet streets, jagged in motion, jagged in thought, impaled by his own stupidity.

And hurting.

Darlin', forgive me, he thinks, praying as best he can while running, hoping she won't be disappointed. Or angry.

He is hard pressed to figure which is worse.

His hangover is stifling him, grabbing his head in a vise, blocking coherent thought, replacing everything he feels with a pounding beat which keeps in time to his footsteps, in time with his throbbing knee.

Tripping and stumbling, he reaches the park, finally, gasping, exhausted.

He sees a bike standing unguarded, and he makes his way to it, limping and bruised. He manages to start it, leaden fingers forcing several attempts at hot-wiring it before it finally starts.

He drives as fast as he can without jarring the bike, careful, steady. He sways unsteadily at times, headache interfering, clouding judgment, clouding care.

Weaving.

Tilting.

Eyes half closed from the wind in his face, and the pounding in his head.

The cold bites, waking him slightly, making him aware again.

It's not a matter of life and death. It is a matter of trust and love. Far, far more important.

And on he rushes, the wind attacking him, cold, harsh, and the sun staring down in mocking glee.

Inexorable,

Victorious.

And the pounding in his head is as intolerable as the roar of the bike, as the thought that he might have lost his love.

His life.

The only thing he holds dear to him.

And then the cold unyielding wind seems to fade and the bike slows down as he senses her near.

Everything begins to look familiar again.

He stops the bike in front of the gates, and he enters the grounds as only he can.

His heart is pounding in the uneasy stillness as he lifts up a few pebbles from the ground.

He hesitates, then throws them lightly against her window, and it seems like he's waiting forever, but only moments pass before he sees a shadow against the window.

She opens the window and leans outside, looks at him, and he knows she has forgiven him, he feels it.

But it still hurts him that he kept her waiting like that, and he knows that he would do anything to stop her from getting hurt, by him, by anyone.

Anything.


	3. Secrets

**First of all: Apologies to people who think this isa new chapter, because, sadly, it's not. I uploaded the wrong document for chapter three by mistake, but the only difference is that in this one, I responded to reviews I got. The content of the story has not been changed. Again, sorry to anyone who gets this on e-mail alert and thinks I have a new chapter up.**

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**Well, thanks to all the people who've reviewed.**

**To Ishy: Really, really loved your review, and I think you got what I was trying to say. I'll try to make the chapters longer; this one clocks in at about 1300 words, so let me know what you think. . . And well, I'd love to write a review of your review about as long as the review you sent, but words fail me. But thanks anyway.**

**To Demonicgambit: I is glads you likes. Hopefully, you'll like this chapter as well. I can't promise about the rest of the story, though.**

**To the luverly luverly Chica: Your support is, as always, appreciated, and your comments, highy valued. I haven't deleted any of your reviews from my inbox, actually.**

**To Javed: Well, I forced you to read it, so I can't really expect anything positive, can I? . . . But, just so you know, this fic is the one where I'm experimenting, looking to expand some horizons and all that.**

**To EE: Yeah, I wasn't sure whether it would be overboard or not. But it was fun to write, which is why I did it. And yeah, I'm trying to increase the chapter length, but wouldn't you rather go for short, regular updates? Pwuuueeeeze? (makes endearing face) . . . it's a lot easier to write a few hundred words and post 'em up, rather than writing 5 K's each time. But I'll try to increase 'em.**

**To Allie-Allie: Well, now what can I say about the chicken? Sadly, he was not included in this fic.**

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**Uhh, there is no pace for this chapter, no slow reading or fast reading recommended. It's more based on light and dark themes, but you don't need to pay attention to that. Just read it, and like it, and please review.**

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He takes her by her glove covered hands; he leads her away with him.

She winces slightly, her hands scraped as she climbed down her window, but she puts the pain out of her head. She doesn't mind little cuts and bruises; what's important is this time, this meeting, these moments.

He leads her gently to a quiet corner of the estate, walking softly in the soft shadows of the trees, diffuse light illuminating all the greenery around them, glinting off the dew in the grass, the bushes, the trees, and a cool wind is blowing, causing them to press close to one another.

He takes her to the protective shade of an oak tree, he kneels gently before her, gently makes her come sit next to him. Overhead, a single bird trills, welcoming the new day, joyous and unashamed, satisfied, as the woods slowly come to life under the pale dawn of a new day.

He leans her head on his shoulder, he holds her close to him, and she feels protected, safe in his arms. For minutes they just sit there, as close as they can be, unable to touch skin to skin, but for the moment satisfied with all that they have.

And for the moment, she feels, they are the only two people in the world, a peaceful, gentle world, which extends only as far as they can see, and does not need to extend any further. There is no past, no issues between them, there is no threat nor suffering around the corner. For these moments, there is nothing save a happy, serene present, and the promise of a fulfilling future.

But even as she nestles contentedly against him, his mind seethes with thoughts dark and disturbing though outwardly he is calm, protective, devoted, and within his mind, doubts begin to grow.

He stirs involuntarily, trying to drive the thoughts from his head, trying to appreciate the perfection of the moment, trying to appreciate how lucky he is to have her there with him, if for only a few moments more, and as he stirs, she feels, she knows something is wrong. He's hiding something from her.

She looks up at him, she sees his eyes, startling in their redness, but subdued, the black overpowering, reducing the red.

He's staring at the ground, thinking, when he notices her looking at him, and looks back at her, his subdued eyes crinkling as he gives her a smile, and even his smile, normally so free and spontaneous, is forced.

She pulls away from him, looking intently at his face, searching, as if to read him like a book full of dangerous ideas and words, and he looks at her, trying to maintain his smile, his false happiness, but ultimately he cannot, and he is forced to look away.

He stares at the ground below him, he breaks a few blades of grass, crushing them with nervous fingers. But he cannot escape the fact that she is looking at him, the fact that she wants to know what he's thinking about, that she wants to share in his every feeling, every emotion, every judgment.

But his judgment has been made.

The only thing left, is to tell her, but he does not know how he can form the words, how he can tell her without hurting her. And it scares him, it hurts him to be so dependent on her feelings. But he would still die rather than hurt her.

And it is because of that fact that he hesitates, that he sits there while she wonders what is going on, and the whole perfection of the morning has been marred, and it feels like a fog has spread around him, from him, casting a pall over the surroundings.

But in the gloom, she still stands out, bright, but confused, wanting him to tell her, and he knows that some of the fog will be dissipated by her light, if he can only tell her what he wants to tell her, what he needs to tell her.

If.

But he still hesitates.

His words are choked in his mouth, perhaps for the first time in his life, something he was not at all prepared for. He had thought he would tell her, simply, before he left. He had thought it would be simpler than this; he had thought he would hold her close, look her in the eyes and tell her, in a sentence or two. It was the reaction that he had been dreading, but here he is, not even able to tell her. Speechless. Afraid.

For her, especially.

And looking at him, she knows that he's hiding something he cannot even put into words, and immediately her mind flashes thoughts, horrors. Things that should not be. Maybe he's met someone else, she thinks, someone he could be intimate with. Someone who could satisfy his needs the way she never can. Someone beautiful to match his looks, someone. . .

Her hands grip the grass and the soil as her mind races through myriads of flashing thoughts, and he looks at her white face, sees her shoulders shake with emotion, and he knows that she's drowning in her own sense of inadequacy, and immediately he moves to comfort her, hugging her close, whispering words in her ear, assuring her as far as he is able to.

And when she is calm, leaning against his chest, still wondering what he has to hide, he strokes her hair gently, in the pale mist of the morning, under a great and spreading oak tree. And the trees whisper sadly in the wind, as if they knew.

But his dark silence continues, and at length she draws back again, face pale in the soft mist, staring with green eyes bright against his dark black and red ones.

And she moves forward, slowly, giving him an opportunity to move, giving him all the time in the world, her own heart beating faster as she leans in towards him.

And he knows what she is going to do, and he braces himself, wanting it, and knowing, disappointed that he did not have the courage to tell her, and he sees her eyes close softly as she comes towards him, and her hair is brown in the shade, and the white streak draws him towards her in a compulsion he would not want to resist.

And her cheeks are blushing pink in the cool wind, and her lips are parted as he too closes his eyes, hiding the blackness, his darkness.

And they meet, and he feels sparks of light explode in his mind, he feels his life, his energy flow out through him into her. And she's like a drug that he cannot help but have, even though it kills him, and he wants her to take him, take his being, totally, completely.

But she knows that she is hurting him, she pulls away, with his touch tingling on her lips, and his presence in her mind.

And immediately, she knows.

He looks at her, ready for the tears, ready for her to shout at him, asking him how he could hide it from her, even prepared that she might get lash out in frustration, in impotent rage, grief, heartache.

But he's not prepared for her to look at him in shock, and then rise unsteadily, back away and run with tottering steps away from him, back, perhaps, to the sanctity of her room.

And as he sees her run away from him, disappearing against the dark trees, he too gets up, slowly, and walks away from the scene.

And there is silence, save for his fading footfall, and the rustling trees. Not even a bird chirps, and the wind blows in chill fury, and as he moves out of the sight of the oak tree, it seems that everything is suspended, waiting.

And then the first snowflake falls.

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**And that brings us to the end of another chapter. Did I do it right, or did I go overboard this time? Was there anything I could have added, or cut out? I'm not giving away too much, am I? (grins) Tell me, let me know what you think is going to happen. . . and tell me how you liked it.**


	4. What Can't Be Undone

**Thanks to all of you all who've reviewed, and for the comments, suggestions and guesswork that you've given. I want to say that I'm keeping the chapters short on purpose 'cause I think this kinda writing is fairly heavy to get through, and if I keep it longer, y'all are just going to get sick of it. Therefore, I'm trying to go for smaller chapters with quicker updates. But, if you don't like that, feel free to mention it in a review. And, since there aren't that many reviews, I can write a little reply to anyone who's reviewed. Like in the next few lines:**

**EE's Skysong: Well, I just get started writing. For me, it's all about getting down to it, and then I can usually manage at least a thousand words at any given time. But I might not write anything for days, even weeks, because of the non-inclination to start.**

**Thegambit23: Nope, you didn't miss a thing. If you're looking for clues though, I'm not going to point any out.**

**MeWhoExactlyWhat: Thanks. It's the first time I've written something where I'm giving so much emphasis to thoughts. It's quite fun writing on, really.**

**Chica: RAFO (Read and find out.)**

**DemonicGambit: And so you shall. . . But not just yet.**

**Ishy: Will you EVER find out? Yeah, I hope so, unless something happens to me, in which case, I want YOU to continue with the story. No, seriously, just think of yourself as my adjutant, or back-up.**

**BananaPanda: Yeah, I'm just trying something new (for me) here. Hope you'll continue to like it.**

**Abril: Y'know, after feeling the strong anti-Belle sentiment from all directions, I've begun to quite dislike her myself. I can't promise you a resolution to the issue that you'll like, but I hope you'll at least be satisfied with it.**

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**Everyone done? Okay, good, now we continue to chapter four.**

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Nausea.

Pain.

Hurt.

She's been locked in her room since she came back, since she found out. She needs to be alone, away from all the rest of the world, away, even from him.

How? How could he hide something like this from her? And then, make her take his secrets from him like that. How could he not tell her himself? And now, like a thunderbolt, she's been struck, struck by him.

Nothing's making sense. Her world's upside-down. Afternoon passed in a haze, not knowing, not caring. Nothing's important anymore.

Nothing.

She lies on her bed, staring somewhere, blank. Her pillow is still wet, still stained with tears. Her paint is smudged; her veneer is about to crack and fall away.

She's dreading what might be underneath.

Inadvertently, she makes a sound. Like a scream, but sort of silent, but then she quickly closes her mouth, afraid that she might break.

And what will happen then? What happens after the dam has burst?

She doesn't want to know. She doesn't want to even think about what might happen if she gives in to her grief.

And nothing's important anymore. She hasn't said a word since she got back, she hasn't eaten. All she can remember doing is laying on her bed, and somehow, time has passed. Somehow, even though she can't remember what she was thinking about, even though it feels like it's only been a little while since they parted.

And yet, the clock turns on without remorse.

She raises her head, haggard, bleary. She checks the time, realizes that it's nearly dusk. She met him at dawn, she found out so many, many hours ago. But she didn't do anything about it.

But what could she do?

She stares off again, unaware that the fading light shining on her face creates strange effects, unaware that there are lines on her face that divide it, in a battlefield of light and shadow. But even if she did know, she would not care. She's muting everything, fading it all out, pushing it all away.

And as she lies, there comes a knock on the door, a light gentle tapping. Non-invasive, politely asking her if all is well, like the previous ones, and, as she did before, she makes no reply. It doesn't seem to be worth the effort.

She can hear them call her name; she can hear the concern in their voices. But they know from previous experience that the best thing to do is leave her alone.

All alone.

She smiles slightly, bitterly, as a tear rolls down her cheek. She doesn't know what she wants, but a shoulder to cry on or a sympathetic ear would probably be good for her. Problem is, her attitude prevents people from coming near, and her walls prevent her from asking for sympathy.

And she continues to lie there, not really thinking anything at all, with no idea of what to do next, with a total lack of caring. She's all cried out, with silent tears, and though her feelings are still shuttered in, she can't find the energy or the will to release them.

She can't find the energy to do anything, actually.

But she wonders about him, where he will be now. He will have left town by now, probably, and he'll have taken the train. In fact, he might even have reached. He might be there, helpless, confused.

If only she could have gone with him.

If only.

Who knew a kiss could have so many dimensions, so many repercussions? If only they hadn't kissed, if only he had looked at her with regret right there, just looked at her and got up and walked away. She would never have known.

But what then?

Would she have spent the rest of her life wondering what had happened? Wondering how such a perfect love could have had such an abrupt ending? Or would she have carried on, found someone else?

She honestly did not know.

But now, it didn't matter. Nothing mattered, not anymore.

Outside, the sky had darkened, bringing the cloak of night overhead. The snow continued to fall, as it had done all day, and briefly, she wondered if he was warm where he was. Maybe he had remembered to wear something warm; maybe even the sweater she had knitted for him, even though one sleeve was too long. Even with that, he had liked it when she had given it to him, and his face had lit up like –

A great choking sob comes from somewhere deep inside her as she remembers. The memories aren't cold yet, and they stab her like needles in light of what has happened.

She has never been very happy, very open with those around her. She could never let her walls down to let others come inside, to let others see her for what she really was behind the mask, behind the façade. It took someone really special to see her as she was, not as she pretended to be, and with him, she was radiant in her personality. He made her come alive.

Slowly, she moves. Slowly, she gets up, moves to her dresser. Then, with careful deliberate movement, she removes her make-up, her protection. She removes all of it, and she looks at herself – at her actual face, not in the bleary routine of morning ritual, but objectively, dispassionately.

She does not like what she sees.

And then, finally, it breaks.

All her walls crumble, every façade is gone. There's no-one to pretend in front of, there's no-one there to see her. There is nothing restraining her anymore. All control is gone, and the dam breaks.

She picks up her clock, and she shatters her mirror with it. And then, she breaks down and cries. Not the silent tears she had cried in earlier, but true, uninhibited tears; and she doesn't care who hears her. It's too late for them to help her, it's too late to try, and nothing matters anymore. Finally, she can look at herself and realize what she is.

She is just a girl, like any other girl. She's not as different as she thought.

And right now, she's very lonely, and very scared.

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**Err, I want you all to bear with me and the way I'm moving the story along, for just a few more chapters. I hope no-ones too bugged about the fact that I'm not giving away a lot. I just need to find the right words, that's all.**

**On the other hand, I want you to notice that everything's getting more real now, as opposed to the surreal feel of the previous chapters, where there was a sleepy feel, a romantic rendezvous and the like. In keeping with that, I've stripped the imagery down to a bare minimum in this chapter, but the whole thing still takes place inside the head, though. As for the direction later chapters take, well, keep reading, and find out.**

**A couple o' things before I finish off this little post-chapter gibberish: firstly, my updating is going to get screwed up big time in the next month, though I promise to try and write/ update as and when I can.**

**The other thing is, if you have an idea of what's going on, hazard a guess. If you don't have a clue, guess anyway. And then (shameless plug) read on and see how right you were. Go on. You know it's fun.**


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